


Captain Dick & The Doc

by AndreaLyn



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 23:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Kirk is the highest-grossing porn actor in the country. Which is a shame because he has a romantic crush on McCoy. He's suitably disgusted with himself as much as he is hopeless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Captain Dick & The Doc

“Oh! Oh, god.  _Oh! Oh, Leo_ , yes, harder,” Jim gasps as his body undulates in time with a silent rhythm, pushed onwards by the deepest of passions, his heart stirred in such a way that he’s never felt before. He tips his head back to the ceiling and lets out an endless and agonizing moan of such pleasure and pain that they’ll hear it down the streets. “Yes! Yes, baby, god, yes, don’t stop,” Jim grunts as he starts fucking harder than before, a rapid bounce of a rhythm that shoves the headboard against the wall and makes the mattress creak. “That’s it, you beautiful cockwhore, take it all.  _Yes!_ ”   
  
And then he comes.    
  
Fireworks, the sunset, the sunrise, a baby’s birth. None of it compares to Jim Kirk’s orgasm. He finishes with an exhaled and ragged moan just as the bells start to ring. They ring and the lights go off and the bedroom rolls away.    
  
Jim pulls out and away before vaulting onto his feet, accepting his robe from one of the PA’s and grins warmly at Pike. “Well? Am I good or am I good?”   
  
Pike gives him the thumbs-up before returning to the daily rushes and Jim whistles on his way to the crafts table to start refreshing himself for the next scene. The most popular porn star in the country needs his food, after all, and Jim will happily tell that to anyone who listens. He’s currently starring in a line of man-on-man movies because apparently the demand for that has  _skyrocketed_  amongst the female buyers of their videos and you just didn’t turn away the straight-woman target market.   
  
Jim settles in his chair and pops grapes into his mouth, watching the various sets around him. “Hey, Sulu,” Jim greets the man he was just riding and fucking in front of three cameras intended to get the wide-shots they needed. “Feeling good?”   
  
“Sore as usual after a shoot with you,” Sulu points out with a curl of his lip, as if resenting Jim’s baiting him.    
  
Jim loves to hear that, he really does. He pops another grape into his mouth, his mood flying high as ever. It stays that way until he feels a tap on his shoulder and glances back to see a familiar grumpy face glaring down at him.    
  
“Doc,” Jim greets.   
  
“Captain Dick,” Doc responds sharply. “You’re still faking your orgasms.”   
  
Doc is actually Doctor Leonard McCoy and he wouldn’t be working for Pike at all if it hadn’t been for the fact that his ex-girlfriend had taken every last penny and shred of dignity from him until no honest clinic would hire the mess that was McCoy (though apparently there’s some other deep dark skeleton that had made that so) and so instead of switching careers like a sane man, Doc McCoy took a job with Christopher Pike’s adult video company, testing all of its stars for STI’s and making sure they didn’t throw out their various body parts in the aerobics of their day-to-day job. He’s turned out to be part-physiotherapist, part-blood-taker, and part-therapist.    
  
Today, he appears to be Part-Critic as well.   
  
Jim huffs and tips his head even further backwards until he’s staring up into those gorgeous hazel eyes of McCoy’s. The man would fit right in on set and he’s said as much to Pike a hundred times, but apparently McCoy won’t condone a starring role in any of their films. No dice.    
  
This makes it very difficult for Jim to sell his pitch to McCoy about the script he’s written about a doctor falling for an adult-video actor.    
  
Not that he’s transparent or anything.   
  
“Honey, you ready?” a female voice calls from the edge of the set. McCoy glances over and smiles warmly at their newest visitor. Tonia Barrows, apparently. First there was a woman named Nancy, then McCoy had briefly dated a blonde named Eleen and then came Jocelyn. Jocelyn was almost The One by the rumors, but then that ended and then came Tonia. She’s beautiful ( _that bitch_ ) and smart and has a great job as a publicist down the street and doesn’t even care that McCoy does this for a living.   
  
Jim’s nose twists up in mild disgust as McCoy goes flitting off, kissing Tonia deeply and leaving them to their lives of sin and depravity.    
  
“Issues?” Sulu asks curiously (who looks like he’s just eaten the world’s smelliest piece of cheese).   
  
Jim tries to shake it off and get refocused for their next scene because there is no good that can come out of his stupid crush on the stupid doctor that’s probably going to take off as soon as he and Tonia get married and have stupidly beautiful perfect little children and all that fairytale happy ending stuff that Jim’s not sure he wants, but is probably never due to get.    
  
“Whatever, I’m fine,” Jim insists stubbornly. “Are we ready to go for the next take?”   
  
He tries to pretend that his gaze doesn’t linger on the doorway and his thoughts don’t dare pause on McCoy and what he’s doing with Tonia right at that second. He tries not to think about them during the sex scene and the three-way with Pavel Chekov and he definitely doesn’t think about McCoy as he’s being bound up to a prop-headboard and told he’s been a naughty, naughty boy. He doesn’t even think of McCoy when a brief thought flicks past his mind, wondering why no one ever listens to him when he insists that these scenes would be  _way_  sexier if only they would affect an accent from the South.    
  
When they finish for the day and Pike calls it a wrap, Jim slides into his robe and collapses into a chair, sulking heavily as he thinks about Tonia and McCoy making out. It might not be so bad if it were just some annoying little anti-daydream, but he’d caught them doing in the parking lot the other day and so it’s vivid in its pervasive reality.   
  
God, normal people with their heteronormative ways of expressing physical intimacy really piss him off.   
  
He’s still upset when he gets to the bar later that evening and he ignores the first three girls who try to pick him up and only has a quickie in the bathroom with the brown-haired man who definitely has way too small a dick to get into adult films. It wouldn’t be such a shame if the stranger hadn’t been intending to get into adult films, like he spends all night telling Jim. Jim listlessly promises that he’ll pass along his resume and goes back to the bar for another round.   
  
“You’re looking bluer than a beluga whale,” comes a familiar voice.   
  
“Scotty, that makes no sense,” Jim protests, but he’s learned that sometimes their Director of Photography just  _is_  and sense isn’t meant to be had. “It’s nothing. Just come drink with me so I can get wasted and then Pike can’t blame me because I’ll have the whole ‘I was drinking with a Scot’ defense.” Which apparently carries a lot of weight after the one Christmas party where Pike and Scotty had far too much to drink and were later found in a janitorial closet doing things that Jim is glad no camera will ever catch.    
  
“What’s the matter now?”   
  
Jim gives a listless sound, shrugging his shoulders. “You know. The usual.”   
  
“You’re still infatuated with the good Doctor and he’s still hiding his sausage under her kilt?”   
  
“...I wish that wasn’t the usual,” Jim admits after a moment, grasping another vodka-water in his hand and slouching against the bar. “He’s been working with the company for almost a year now and he doesn’t even look at me like I have a dick. And I do, and it’s incredible, and the mainstream press would say so too if people would stop being giant prudes,” he says petulantly. “He looks at me like I’m some non-sexual object and I’m a porn star, Scotty,” he complains. “He should look at me and think of whipped cream and handcuffs and orgies and double-penetration.”   
  
“Remind me again that you want a relationship with this bloke, because it seems like you just need to get laid,” Scotty says dubiously.    
  
“I already did, it was no good,” Jim sighs.    
  
Scotty has been working for them ever since one of the go-to guys in the higher echelons of respectable filmmaking wanted Scotty out after a harmless incident with his dog. With nowhere to go, he’d bummed around taking pictures for porn magazines for a while before Jim and Pike found him doing a shoot in Siberia for Russian models in husky-fur underthings.   
  
Suffice to say, it hadn’t taken much to convince him to get out of there and he’s been at  _Enterprise_  ever since.    
  
They toast drinks and Jim takes the shot back, watching mournfully as the bells above the door jangle and signify that they have company in the form of McCoy and Tonia coming back from their date.    
  
“He always knows I’m going to be here,” Jim hisses under his breath, turning around on his stool to glare forward at the bottles of alcohol behind the bar. “He’s doing this on purpose.”   
  
“What, to make you jealous? You’ve made yourself fairly clear on the matter, haven’t you?”   
  
Jim falters and starts to squirm in his seat because while he’s definitely had one of the world’s most pathetic crushes (a romantic one and not even a sex-crush, which is just sad considering his line of work) on McCoy, he hasn’t exactly made any offers. So maybe he’s a little afraid of rejection and beyond that, it always, always seems like he’s taken.    
  
“Oh, boy,” Scotty sighs. “All right, then maybe this is an equation I’ve been looking at from all the wrong angles. You get some napkins, Mr. Kirk, and I’ll get the pens and the drinks and the all-important peanuts and we’ll start from the top, shall we?”   
  
*   
  
Jim is allergic to half of Enterprise’s supply when he first joins up and Leonard McCoy is assigned to his case. He’s been cleared of all STD’s and hasn’t had an injury in months. That’s why everyone is shocked when halfway through a scene involving DP, he suddenly goes into anaphylactic shock, mouth turning blue after sliding off of Sulu’s dick.    
  
McCoy had been there immediately, jabbing him with an epi-pen and hauling him off to treat him immediately. Since then, every new shipment is vetted by Pike, but also must go through McCoy’s controlled tests to ensure that they won’t have another incident.   
  
“What’s today’s, Doc?” Jim pleasantly notes as he closes the office door behind him just as McCoy is snapping a plastic glove on his hand. “Oh boy,” Jim deadpans. “I can’t wait to see where this is going.”   
  
“New lube,” McCoy informs him, squeezing a helpful dollop onto two of his fingers. “According to the ingredient list, it’s approved, but...”   
  
“But you’re a stickler for obsessive checking,” Jim agrees with a nod. “Yeah, I know. Let’s just get this over with.” He slides his fingers into the beltloops of his pants and nudges them down, pushing his underwear down and pressing his hands on the bed, sticking his ass out in the air in McCoy’s direction. “I’m ready, Doc. Give it all you got.”   
  
He feels McCoy’s warmth, though not his skin as he presses his free hand to the small of Jim’s back to center him and Jim lets out a small sound of anticipation, spreading his legs and grinning, glad that McCoy can’t see his face.    
  
He  _loves_  these sessions. It’s the only way he can get McCoy’s hands on him right now and they’re pretty damn amazing, as hands go.    
  
Jim bites down on his lower lip to prevent another sound from passing his lips and embarrassing him as McCoy slides his first finger in. Jim exhales deeply in order to prove that his airways are still clear and pushes forward, his free hand moving down to stroke his dick in time with McCoy’s fingers probing inside him. It’s very clinical, there’s no doubt about that, but if Jim closes his eyes, he can just pretend they’re playing doctor.    
  
The second finger is always good, but the third, the third is rapture. The third is just enough pressure and just enough thickness to make Jim feel _real_  good.   
  
Jim lets out a shaky huff of a giddy breath as he rocks forward, a stupid grin on his face. “Doc, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you liked doing this to me.”   
  
“Jim, take your ego down several pegs,” McCoy warns and pries his fingers out before Jim can find his release. He definitely isn’t getting it when he hears the snap of the gloves, meaning that McCoy is about to walk away. “Pull your pants up and I’ll tell Pike he’s got an approved product on his hands. Come back tomorrow and we can test out the new dildos.”   
  
Yeah. Jim’s got it pretty bad for McCoy.    
  
He, at least, manages to stave off his whimper until McCoy leaves the room and even is able to hobble over to the door to lock it so that no one can interrupt him while he’s busy coming and calling McCoy’s name in what’s definitely, most completely not a  _fake_  anything.    
  
“Hey,” Jim calls out hoarsely as he looks over his shoulder. It’s one last gambit to try and get McCoy to stay for another moment. If they can’t have that firework-inducing hot incredible sex that Jim  _knows_  he can offer, he at least wants to be the sort of guy you can talk to. “How’s Tonia?”   
  
“None of your business,” is McCoy’s terse answer before he storms out of the room.   
  
At least, Jim thinks with a heavy sigh, he can say that he  _tried_ .   
  
*   
  
Jim has tried dinner, flowers, compliments, and all he’s gotten from McCoy is a barely-audible murmur of thanks. He’s tried leaving poetry and notes and invitations to have dinner, but still nothing. The only balm Jim has is that apparently McCoy and Tonia have split up because she’s seeing someone else. This gives Jim a very slim window to try the Hail Mary pass because if this time is like all the others in the past, then McCoy will have a new girlfriend within the week and he’s too tired of being heartsick and of dealing with blue-for-only-McCoy balls to let that happen.   
  
He’d stolen a key from Uhura (she’s the most wondrous woman around and being head of production, she’s got keys for all the staff) and has shucked every last piece of clothing off, though he did have a mental argument with himself about keeping the socks on so that McCoy would have something to pull off.   
  
He inevitably ends up snug in the messy piles of sheets that McCoy calls his bed when he hears the front door being opened and the master of the house arriving home from his day consulting porn stars about their aches and pains.    
  
Jim listens to the weary sigh as McCoy trudges through the halls and comes to a sudden stop in the door of the bedroom. “What in God’s name…”   
  
“I want you. I really, really  _want_  you and I’m not just talking about wanting to rub one out with you standing above me watching,” Jim says plainly. “Do you think I write crappy poetry for just anyone?”   
  
It’s exactly two seconds more before McCoy collapses on the bed and curls up behind Jim. “Just promise not to write poems ever again. And shut up for a while, I’m exhausted,” he pleads, pressing his lips to Jim’s shoulder and tugging the blankets over him as well. “I’m napping and you’re staying and when we wake up, we’re talking.”   
  
*   
  
If Jim had known that shitty haikus and a nap was all it took to get McCoy into bed with him, he really would’ve tried that tactic much earlier.   
  
As it is, he’s not going to look this gift horse in the mouth.   
  
*   
  
When anyone starts at Enterprise Videos, it’s tradition to put a bet on exactly how hung they are for males and bra size for the females. It’s slightly raunchy, but considering their workplace, it’s one of the more tame aspects of the business. Leonard McCoy has worked for the company for over a year and still no one has won the bet. The pot has been racked up to thousands of dollars and no one has any proof.    
  
That is, no one  _had_  any proof.    
  
Jim hasn’t exactly told anyone yet who the Polaroid is of, but he’s pretty sure that he’s smirking like the smuggest bastard this side of the moon as he gathers the crowd around (it’s a five-way shoot today with light sado-masochism) and shows off his treasure.    
  
“Wow,” Uhura exhales. “Just...wow.”   
  
“Remarkable, indeed,” is Spock’s contribution.   
  
“It has to be the new guy,” Gaila says with a scoff. They’d hired Riley only weeks ago and the one thing that Pike demands of all his leading gentleman is that they’ve got something to show. Jim usually welcomes them to the company with his own special brand of hospitality, but apparently when you date someone, that’s out of the question. “It’s got to be Riley’s.”   
  
“Nope,” Jim cheerfully says. “Not Riley. Though I’m sure his is nice, too.” And he’ll probably find out because they’re scheduled to shoot ‘Lord of the G-String’ later on in the week. Jim just stares fondly at the Polaroid and is more than glad that he’d bribed McCoy into letting him take it while he was fully erect.   
  
“Doc,” Jim had protested very seriously. “Think about your  _dignity_ .”   
  
“You’re buying me a goddamn vacation with that bet money,” McCoy had warned him while shucking his pants downwards and letting Jim go ahead and rile him to the point of a full erection.   
  
Now, Jim is currently smirking like the smuggest man on the block. Not only is he about to win a lot of money, but he gets to go public with the biggest news since…well, since they all found out that Spock was dating Uhura considering how much he seemed to like doing those accountant and student flicks with Chekov.    
  
He’s about to explode (and not in that way, he’s already done that once earlier in the day with Rand shooting More Sex In The City – not  _all_  porno flicks needed that much manipulation of the title) and he’s waiting for the picture to circulate the small group on set for the day.    
  
“Oh, come on,” Jim pleads and wheedles as Chekov and Sulu take turns assessing size, length, and color. “Just let me  _tell_  already!”   
  
He snatches the picture away when people start tipping it and tilting it to look at it in various permutations. It’s his picture and he’ll do things with it that are totally for his private benefit only. He clasps it close to his chest and is fully aware that he’s starting to get suspicious looks. The picture gets slid into the pocket of his robe.   
  
Everyone is staring at him like he’s just announced that he’s discovered the cure for cancer and it involves a very thorough fucking.   
  
“Well?” Uhura asks pointedly. “You made us all gather around here so you could share. What’s the big news?”   
  
Jim lifts the Polaroid victoriously over his head, ready to announce that victory is his and he knows exactly whose long and thick cock is captured by the photo in his hand. He opens his mouth to claim his prize when he feels a warm hand enclose over his fingers, snatching away his hard-earned victory.    
  
“Hey!” he protests, spinning around to glare at the offender.    
  
McCoy raises his brow calmly and slides the photo away with careless disregard for any creases he might cause. “Think that’s mine, kid.”   
  
For a moment, it seems like no one’s going to get it, but then Chekov and Spock exchange a knowing looks and Jim shouldn’t be surprised that the two resident geniuses are the first to cobble onto the truth of the matter.   
  
Victory stolen, smugness claims Jim’s expression as he sidles closer to McCoy and snags his fingers into his belt loops. “Definitely his property,” he concurs, biting his lower lip and grinning as wide as he can. “So pay up, because I need to go fill Rand while she fucks me in the ass with a dildo.”   
  
“Hard day at work, huh,” McCoy wryly notes.   
  
“Dinner when I get home, honey?” Jim asks, making kissing sounds right in McCoy’s ear before smacking him on the ass and cinching his robe just a bit tighter. “Don’t let these people not pay you! They thought you were  _Riley_ , they owe you a ton of money and you can use it for whatever you want.”   
  
“I was thinking more STD panels,” he deadpans.    
  
“You’re so funny,” Jim notes, mimicking McCoy’s deadpan as best as he can. “I’m going off to fuck. If you want to drop by and watch or...say...join...” he lets his voice trail off as if that will somehow make it more inviting when Jim knows that he has a very lost cause on his hands – not that it’s a bad thing. He’s not so sure he’s ready to share McCoy just yet.    
  
He leans in for one longer kiss, grateful when it’s McCoy who grabs at his hips and hauls him in tighter, fingers slipping inside the fabric of the bathrobe and giving his cock just one small stroke that’s not enough. “Call if you need any fluffing,” is all he says with that sweet drawl of his coating all of his words.   
  
Sometimes Jim thinks the voice alone could do it.   
  
Well, the voice and a really good blowjob in the meantime. He’s not  _completely_  a romantic.   
  
*   
  
Other than one brief evening in which they played with temperatures, Jim has been fairly insistent on promising McCoy that he doesn’t actually want a sex-crazed, contortionist boyfriend who’s willing to get in any position. He just wants the  _boyfriend_  part of it. He wants the part that he’s never had, with the whole ‘how was your day’ and not having to worry about dirty talk or bloodplay or restraints or ‘who left whose handcuffs out to corrode’.    
  
Pike’s sent him home due to delays with production equipment. Something that one of the new guys did has fucked with the boom mike and so he’s home early, ready to surprise McCoy. His car is in the driveway of his townhome (another nice thing about having a responsible doctor as a boyfriend. They come with handy property) so Jim knows that he’s actually home.   
  
Jim shifts his messenger bag and sets it on the lobby hall as he wanders inside. “Len!” He pokes his head around walls and into doors. “Marco?”   
  
“If that’s supposed to mean something sexual, I’m not responding.”   
  
Not the best ‘Polo’ in the world, but it places McCoy in the kitchen and does the trick. He stops short as he arrives in the kitchen and finds McCoy with a bucket at his side, rubber gloves up to his elbows (shirt-sleeves of his scrubs-shirt rolled up with the underarmor bunched beneath) and a determined look on his face as he scrubs and jabs at the dirt in the grout of the counter’s tiles.   
  
For some reason, it’s about the sexiest thing that Jim’s seen in a very long time.    
  
“Does the clinic know you’ve been stealing clothes that don’t fit you?” is all he manages to say after a good long moment of speechlessness presides at how form-fitting McCoy’s shirt is on him. It’s some combination of the clothes and the determined glower on his face along with his task – which seems so mundane, but is something so domestic and out of place – that Jim’s cock is immediately as ready as he needs to be in the middle of any scene. Hell, he’s primed for The Fastest and Most Furious and they aren’t even shooting that for another week.   
  
Jim slides his hand down to adjust his jeans slightly, trying not to go from zero to ‘fuck me harder over the fucking counter’ in ten seconds. He squeezes lightly and wanders closer, sliding his palm up McCoy’s shoulder and down his arm, chin resting on his shoulder.    
  
“Hey,” Jim exhales. “I know I’ve been screwing around all day, but you have  _no idea_  how bad I wanna do it on the counter.”   
  
“I’m cleaning this counter,” McCoy grumbles, even as Jim’s fingers pass the elbow and snag onto the flimsy edge of the gloves, pushing inside and slowly helping to push them off to the sound of the squeaking. “And do you even know how fucking unhygienic that is? Fucking in  _any_  food prep area...?”   
  
“Do you have any idea,” Jim echoes, mocking McCoy’s tone to the exact intonation, “how much of a fucking turn-on you are when you curse?” He reaches around with his left hand and plucks at the fingertips of the glove before turning his attention to the other, pressing his hips against McCoy’s ass and not caring that his jeans really don’t do much to hide the erection. “Plus, you’re cleaning. This is so hot,” he breathes out, still feeling slightly disturbed at the fact that he thinks that.   
  
“Jim, you feeling all right in the head?”   
  
“I have no idea, but do you really want to stop to find out? Rhetorical,” Jim warns and hooks his hands onto the hem of McCoy’s shirt, pulling it off with some struggle – it is, after all, tighter than any shirt should be on a person. He grabs at McCoy’s hips and starts to figure out all the logistics – where’s the last condom he stashed and is it really in the sugar jar like his brain is telling him and should they do this with Jim’s legs in the air or pressed to the counter and he really wants to be fucked, but by McCoy or a toy and are those in the flour jar?   
  
In the end, he’s on the counter with the condom in hand before he even realizes that he’s made his choice. Legs spread and jeans hitched down to his ankles, he leans back onto his elbows and gets his knees wide as they’ll go, kicking off the pants.   
  
“Lube,” McCoy says pointedly.   
  
“Oh, come on,” Jim complains. “What’s wrong with rough?”   
  
“Fixing your rectal tears after sex isn’t exactly my idea of a romantic evening, Jim,” McCoy says, easing away when he’s done folding up Jim’s jeans. He leaves the kitchen and comes back with a small bottle of KY, tossing it across the room, caught in Jim’s lap with ease.    
  
Jim heaves out a heavy sigh, like he’s really unfortunately upset and uncaps it, giving it a light squeeze and offering it out to McCoy. “For you.”   
  
“Gee, thanks,” McCoy notes sarcastically, smearing it on his fingers as Jim continues to give small dollops. The first time they’d done this, Jim had been shocked how much sensation he’d been missing out because of the gloves McCoy always wore during their sessions, but he’s definitely not missing out now. McCoy uses his clean hand to nudge Jim’s knees open slightly and push inwards, fingers taking their sweet time coating and preparing him.   
  
Jim leans back and rests on his elbows, letting out a sigh of content at the constant pleasure. He peers at the ceiling and investigates the kitchen as McCoy works, trying not to rush him. “Did you bleach the walls?” Jim asks warily, when he’s sure that the walls weren’t exactly that white yesterday.   
  
“I like a clean kitchen,” McCoy murmurs, bent over and right down in there, breath wafting over Jim’s inner thigh.    
  
“You are just about compulsive, aren’t you?”   
  
“All the allergy checks didn’t prove that?” he wonders as he straightens up and uses his lubed hand to stroke Jim’s dick a couple of times, leaning in to kiss Jim as he unties the drawstring of his scrubs and lets them fall to his ankles. Jim lets out a keening noise as McCoy pulls away from the kiss, trying to follow with a lunge forward that just gets his two of McCoy’s fingers pressed to his lips.    
  
Jim wets his lower lip and bites down on it, watching attentively as McCoy starts to get himself going, both hands busy stroking himself. “I can help,” he reminds him.   
  
“You just stay ready,” McCoy coaxes. “Can’t believe how much goddamn sanitizing I’m going to have to do after this,” he mutters.   
  
“You’re gonna love it, don’t be such a little bitch,” Jim takes pleasure in mocking, easing back until he’s all but sprawled back on the counter, using his flexibility as he presses his back to the tiles and wraps his ankles around McCoy’s neck when he steps in and shifts. “So, when you had these built...” Jim asks, smirking before letting out a guttural cry of pleasure as McCoy enters him. “Did you,” he pants, “ask for them to be standard fucking height?” He leans back and for once, doesn’t do any of the work.   
  
He works this all day and he does it  _well_ , but the last thing he wants to do is come home and be expected to moan at a level that could cause long-term hearing damage. He’s nearly quiet when McCoy gets to work and slides his palm to the base of Jim’s dick, pumping hard with every insistent thrust. Jim doesn’t worry that it’s too clinical because there’s a look on McCoy’s face, a sense of content in his gaze that settles Jim right to his core.   
  
And really, he knows the sex is good. Jim Kirk is a fucking  _porn star_ . He’s more worried that McCoy is going to discover he hates the way Jim folds clothes or that he snores too heavily at night or that his morning dancing to songs from  _Grease_  really is slightly off-putting. The fucking? The fucking is no worry.   
  
Plus, when he can draw out climaxes from McCoy that seem like supernovas in orgasm-form, Jim can just rest smugly on his laurels and slide his hand down to interlace his fingers with McCoy’s and finish the job.   
  
Jim comes with a grin on his lips and pursing them to try and coax McCoy closer, letting out a soft groan of pleasure when he gets his way. “Better than Tonia?” he murmurs.   
  
“Tonia wouldn’t have me fuck her on the counter,” McCoy bitches, right in his ear.   
  
Jim just rolls his shoulders back and splays on the counterspace. “All the more reason I’m better.” He hooks his leg around McCoy’s waist and tugs him close, pressing his lips firmly to McCoy’s shoulder and bows his head forward. “Hey, Doc...?”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Still think I fake ‘em?”   
  
That gets a hearty chuckle from McCoy and a light smack upside Jim’s head. He doesn’t even lift his head, just breathes a quiet laugh of calm against McCoy’s shoulder and settles into what he’s earned for himself.   
  
*   
  
Jim’s rouses himself at midnight to head downstairs in a pair of boxers, searching for a glass of milk. Instead he comes across McCoy with a pair of industrial gloves, a bucket of sanitizer, and a determined gleam in his eyes as he attempts to sand down the counter and dismiss it of germs. It’s scary, really, to find out that McCoy hadn’t been joking about coming back to clean up their mess.   
  
“...that is so hot,” is all the warning Jim gives before jumping McCoy and rendering all his work useless.    
  
Jim figures that Len can give it another try in the morning when less-impressionable, less-easily-aroused (less-domestication-kinked) persons are around. And until then, Jim has a lot of sullying to do.    
  
THE END


End file.
